


Never Can Say Goodbye

by Annie46fic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Sam, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Season/Series 11 Spoilers, Wincest Reverse Bang 2016
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-04
Updated: 2016-05-04
Packaged: 2018-06-06 08:34:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6746824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annie46fic/pseuds/Annie46fic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sam is seriously hurt on a hunt Dean knows that he can't save him.  As Sam lays dying Dean thinks back to how their relationship has changed and how they have come to love each other in so many different ways.  He won't let Sam die but if Dean can't make a deal who is going to come to Sam's rescue?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never Can Say Goodbye

**Author's Note:**

> This was my first piece written for the [Wincest Reverse Bang Challenge 2016](http://wincest-reverse.livejournal.com/) on LJ.  
> The art work was done by the lovely [stargazingchola](http://stargazingchola.livejournal.com/)/[winchesterchola](http://winchesterchola.tumblr.com/). Please go and give her the kudos she deserves [Here](http://stargazingchola.livejournal.com/2828.html)

 

**Now**

There’s so much blood; rivers of it and all of it is Sam’s. His brother lies so still, face as pale as milk and Dean knows, he knows but he won’t say it out loud, won’t even think it.

“Hurts.” 

And the very fact that Sam says it, gives voice to it, makes Dean realize just how bad this is. He can’t do anything but kneel over his brother’s prone body, cradling Sam in his arms like he did when Sam was just a baby, when Sam was a toddler who fell over and skinned his knees.

“Sam. Sammy.” He can’t hold it back, the name bursting out of him in stark desperation. “Oh God, Sammy.”

Sam’s arms come up and wrap around him. A trembling hand buries itself into the back of his hair and he can hear Sam’s breathing harsh and labored. Sam is clinging on to him, clinging onto life and there must be something he can do, there must be someone who can help.

“Don’t Dean,” the plea is rough, weak. “Please, Dean. Please don’t.”

Dean understands; recognizes what Sam is asking him but he won’t listen, he can’t.

“Sammy, no.”

“Let me go, Dean.” And the blood slides beneath his trembling knees, sticky, crimson and so thick. “You have to.”

But he won’t, he can’t let his brother go into the void, can’t let him die like this. He chokes back tears and clings to Sam like he can anchor him there.

It can’t end like this.

****

**Then**

It’s time for breakfast and Sam’s turn to cook; that means scrambled eggs and some sort of healthy oatmeal. There’s freshly squeezed juice instead of coffee and no fat in sight. Dean sits in his _‘dead man’s robe’_ and stretches out his toes. Sam’s in the kitchen and he can hear his brother’s tuneless whistling. It’s very domestic, reminds him of those long ago days with Lisa and Ben, when breakfast was the _most important meal of the day_ and he had a job to go to, a job that didn’t involve monsters in any shape or form.

“Hey.” Sam pokes his head around the door, he’s grinning, his hair all over the place. “You ready to eat?”

Dean nods and his stomach rumbles on cue. Sam laughs and vanishes, only to return a moment later with a plateful of eggs and two bowls of fruit. 

“That’s hardly a man’s breakfast, Sammy.” Dean is already spooning eggs into his mouth so it comes out muffled.

“That’s why you’re eating it,” his brother retorts, fast on the draw and both of them laugh.

It’s good, better than it’s been in such a long time. Amara is still out there, darkness still spreading her tendrils of evil. Castiel is acting weird (again) and Crowley is plotting, but Sam and Dean are _Sam and Dean_ again and he wouldn’t have it any other way. They are closer now than they’ve been in decades, no secrets between them, and no hidden angels inside, no hell memories. Sam appears to be over his sojourn with Lucifer in the cage and, as far as Dean is aware, isn’t suffering from any nightmares. In fact since the Banshee case Sam appears to be sleeping like a baby and since Dean told Sam about his connection to Amara, so is Dean.

Sometimes, here in the bunker, underground and away from it all, Dean can pretend that their life is normal. He can pretend that, after breakfast, they’re gonna go grocery shopping and visit the mall, pretend that they have a dog to walk (just what Sammy always wanted), pretend that . . . .

He doesn’t let his mind go there; it’s been years but it never changes. He always loved Sam best of all, had always loved Sam despite everything that had happened between them. He was aware that their co-dependency was unhealthy, that the way they clung to each other wasn’t quite right. Their relationship went deeper, darker than that of other siblings but he used their upbringing, their lifestyle as an excuse as to why.

Down in the depths of his subconscious Dean admits the truth; he loves Sam more than a brother should and he wants Sam in a way that is so fucking wrong. It is the only secret between them now and it is going to remain hidden away. He can’t ever tell Sam the truth, doesn’t want to drive a wedge between them.

Sam is the fucking love of his life . . . it’s enough.

****

**Now**

He hears her before he sees her; the relentlessly cheerful whistle, the sweet cloying song. He can taste the iron of his own blood and he raises his eyes upwards, looks beyond the shaking figure of his brother, and sees the reaper with her shining ebony skin, tight ringlets like Medusa snakes around her head. She’s coming for him, he knows it and he’s ready. He is ready to go even as Dean clings to him and holds him fast, anchoring him to this Earth.

****

**Then**

They don’t have a case; things are frighteningly quiet but Dean welcomes the break, enjoys the quality time spent with his brother. He’s thinking about a trip to the movies, a game of pool in their favorite bar, the steak house two towns over. Sam looks good, better than he has in months. He needs a haircut but he always does, and there’s something stupidly attractive about his floppy mop. He’s engrossed in something on his laptop, tongue caught between his teeth, eyes narrowed. Dean watches those long fingers tap, tap, tap away and he wants to take Sam’s hand in his own, wants to kiss each knuckle tenderly. Despite his _‘no chick flick moments’_ rule Dean always feels stupidly romantic when he thinks about his brother and the need he has tamped down isn’t just about sex.

He gets up and goes to the TV. He needs a distraction right now, maybe some extreme sports channel, or a Porky’s movie. Being domestic is okay for a while but there is a restlessness in his blood that he just can’t change, not even for Sam.

****

**Now**

Sam chokes and more blood (how can there possibly be more?) pours from his lips. His breathing is getting erratic and his skin is turning paler, lips an alarming shade of blue. Dean clings on, feels the hand on his neck shaking harder, grip weakening. There are so many words flying through his head, ideas, and thoughts. He needs to do something fast or Sam will be gone and that isn’t going to happen. Not now. Not ever. He can’t live on this planet without Sam and he won’t. There is a solution, there has to be. He doesn’t give a fuck about Billie and her threats, doesn’t give a fuck about the void. They’ve done enough to earn heaven, and he swears that if Sam goes today he is going to follow him, he isn’t going to let his brother move on alone.

****

**Then**

The movie was Sam’s pick; Oscar nominated apparently and Dean expected to be bored. Two and half hours down the line and he’s almost flying on adrenaline. Fucking Leonardo DiCaprio survived a bear attack, for fuck’s sake. A bear attack! He can’t stop thinking about it, thinking about how one man could be so determined, so strong. Sure he knows all about revenge and how resolute it can make you. Hey, if anyone knows about revenge its Dean. He keeps glancing at Sam and grinning and his brother grins back, dimples and all. The two of them are almost shoulder to shoulder and it is all he can do not to throw his arm around Sam and hold him closer. He feels stupidly alive and he wants Sam so badly it almost hurts.

They stay out, hit a bar and decide to do shots. The whole place vibrates, the music from the juke box loud and thumping. Girls writhe on the dance floor, skirts insanely short but Sam isn’t looking at them, he’s looking at Dean, slanting eyes soft and warm. His flushed cheeks betray the fact that he’s wasted but Dean will take this. He has to drag Sam physically back to the Impala, hold his heavy body upright. Sam is too tall for this, heavy and uncomfortably draped across Dean like a human blanket, his breath hot and whiskey flavored. He flops in his shotgun seat and beams at Dean, crooked and sweet, and then he’s in Dean’s arms and the two of them are kissing. Kissing, sinful and wrong and everything Dean has ever wanted.

****

**Now**

“You have to come with me – you know that, you know that it is inevitable.”

Her voice was soft and thick like molasses, her smile sultry and sly. Sam couldn’t tear his eyes away and he knew that nothing was going to stop her. She knelt as his head and, despite the blood, her knees and hands remained clean.

“He’s still looking for a way to save you, but this time he can’t.” Her eyes widened. “And after the sins you have committed even Hell won’t have you. Nothingness awaits you; you won’t be coming back from there.”

Her hand hovers above his forehead and he wonders if it will be cold.

“Just do it,” he chokes out weakly, and he knows Dean would make a joke about the extended monologue. “Stop talking and just do it.”

“Aren’t you scared?” And he knows then, knows she wants him to be terrified, knows she wants him pleading and begging. She can taste victory but she wants to dine on his fear too. He can feel his heart thumping sluggishly and there are tears stinging painfully at his lashes but if he is scared it isn’t the fear of death that is making his stomach churn.

“Just do it,” he grinds out again and her hand moves closer as he closes his eyes against her smirk.

**Then**

They stumble into the bunker attached by the lips; Dean couldn’t stop it even if he wanted to. Deep down he is aware that Sam is drunk, that there is a real possibility that Sam wouldn’t be doing this if he were sober but he ignores the voice in his head. He has wanted this for so fucking long, and he leans into Sam’s body feeling the welcoming hardness against his own. Sam lets out a moan that is long and throaty, and the very sound of it turns Dean on more than he thought was possible. He pushes Sam back against the wall and kisses him frantically. Sam grunts and shifts so that their erections rub together and it is almost too much.

Despite the fact there is a good bed down the hall Dean can’t stop, he drops to his knees and pulls, clumsily, at his brother’s zipper. He pulls it down, fumbles at his belt and tugs hard so that Sam’s jeans and boxers fall down and bunch around his thighs. Sam’s cock is standing to attention, leaking at the tip and so very beautiful, big like the rest of him. Dean gets what he can in his mouth suckling at the tip and pulling gently at Sam’s balls. Sam’s hips are jolting, his thighs trembling and it doesn’t take long before he’s gripping Dean’s hair in a death grip and moaning that he’s going to come.

Dean takes it all and Sam slumps in a heap against the wall, his eyes are bright on Dean’s face and his mouth pink and inviting. Dean kisses him, lets him taste himself and Sam hisses, leans back, voice hoarse as he says, “You can fuck me.”

So Dean does. Sam is still up against the wall with his long legs wrapped around Dean’s waist. He holds onto Dean’s shoulders with a death grip and it is a testament to their strength and fitness as well as being the hottest thing Dean has ever done with a man or a woman. Later, half naked and covered in bodily fluids they stagger down the hall to Dean’s room where they manage a repeat performance on Dean’s memory foam. 

Afterwards, with Sam snoring beside him, Dean waits to feel guilty but he doesn’t, in fact he feels wonderful. He feels complete. Sam is a heavy weight on his chest, a warm body next to his. This was always going to happen he knew that now and he isn’t going to regret it even if Sam wakes up and punches his lights out when he’s sober.

****

**Now**

Dean sees Sam’s eyes flutter closed and panic surges through his veins. There is an odd acceptance on Sam’s face and it’s easy to realize just what is happening right now. Dean’s hands and clothing are red with blood; there are red spots all over him, his brother’s life ebbing away. Dean clings on to Sam, shakes him gently, cries out, _’Open your eyes. Sammy, open your eyes. Open your eyes’_ over and over. Sam chokes and coughs, blood darker than that surrounding him, and his breathing starts to still, in, out, in . . . out . . . in. Dean screams loud and piercing and it is as if the world is ending.

****

**Then**

He can’t remember being this happy in his entire life. Sure he had tried domesticity with Lisa and Ben, had a home with them but he had never felt contented, always worrying about his brother being in hell. Now Sam is here with him, with him in every single sense of the word. He is having sexual relations with his brother; they are incestuous, committing the ultimate sin and it’s fucking awesome. He can’t keep the smile off his face, he can’t stop beaming. Thing is that Sam is just as happy, no dent between his eyebrows, no shadows beneath his eyes. They have movie nights in, go to bars, and drive around in Baby for no other reason than they can. They make out in the backseat like teenagers and it means everything. 

It’s not just sex. It never was. It is love, pure and simple.

****

**Now**

The pain is bad; he’s had pain before but never so strong, so damned lingering. He barely remembers Cold Oak, but he does recall the knife buried hard into his spine and the way his back would ache for a long time after. This is ten times worse than that pain, and it has lasted a lot longer. He can’t even form words now, just wheezes, in and out slow and painful. Billie still kneels before him with her hand hovering so damn close, and he doesn’t know what she wants of him, doesn’t know why she just doesn’t take him right then and there.

He can hear his brother screaming; it is high and shrill and nothing like a human being. He holds on to the back of Dean’s neck, clings to his bicep but he is too weak, and his hand falls away. He is going into the dark and he is going alone. He won’t let Dean stop him again even though he is terrified of what is going to happen, terrified of being tossed into the void.

“Just do it,” he hisses and Billie stares down at him. Her smirk has been replaced by an expression of puzzlement and he doesn’t understand. All of this blood and gore, all of this mess because of a simple hunt. She could have taken him back when the darkness’s disease made him rabid but now, she holds back and he doesn’t know why.

“I can’t,” her breath whispers cold against his ear and her hand withdraws. He can feel the pain of the injury even more sharp and he groans. Maybe this is all a ruse, maybe this is to torture him more. He hears Dean’s screams cut off sudden and abrupt and then he hears a voice that is as impossible as it is familiar.

Chuck.

****

**Then**

 

They find a case; eventually it had to happen and Dean was ready for it. Sam reads aloud from his place at the laptop, _Man found with his heart ripped out of his body_. Further investigations tell them this is not the first case like this one and, just like that, their peaceful domesticity is over and they’re back on the road. Doesn’t matter so much though, they book motel rooms with a King-sized bed, they eat their meals in nice diners, and they make out around the back of them as if they’ve never had their hands on each other. If he thinks too deeply Dean knows he is still incredibly guilty, knows that this still feels all kinds of wrong. Sam is still his little brother despite the fact he grew taller and wider than Dean and, sometimes, Dean still wants to be a big brother to Sam, even if they are fucking like bunnies.

The case seems straight forward; they’ve faced up to so many different monsters over the decades, they’ve been to Hell, to Purgatory, they’ve saved the world, and doomed the world. A monster who rips out hearts should be a cakewalk, apart from the fact that it isn’t.

Perhaps they’re rusty. They’ve enjoyed their domesticity too much. More movie nights than training, more time spent reading and not shooting. The _thing_ takes them by surprise, and it’s on Sam before he can react, claws in his neck, his side, and then dipping into his chest to pull out his heart. Dean’s stunned, unable to move, knocked to the side so hard he can’t see, vision fuzzy and blurred. When he can move the creature has, virtually, ripped Sam open and he knows it’s too late.

Perhaps he’s being punished because they committed the _ultimate_ sin. Perhaps it’s just that they’re rusty, their skills not as honed as they should be. Whatever the reason, his brother is dying, drowning in a pool of his own (and their shared) blood. Dean has let his brother down and there is nothing to do but fall to his knees and cling to Sam hoping upon hope that he can keep his brother anchored to this Earth.

****

**Now**

Chuck stands in a puddle of Sam’s crimson blood, despite this he is pristine. He wears a white cotton shirt and pressed pants, and he doesn’t really look much like the whiskey sodden man they had met way back. His eyes are bright and clear and he is looking down at them with something akin to fondness in them.

Dean can’t tear his own eyes away. He assumed that the prophet was dead. Cas had told them that there was only a new prophet when the old one passed and, since Kevin, they hadn’t met anymore. He can barely see Chuck through the stinging blur of his tears, and he is convinced he’s hallucinating.

Sam’s breathing evens out then, steady and firm. Dean swallows hard as he puts his hand on Sam’s chest and it comes away clean. He can virtually hear Sam’s heart beating, and when he dares look down at Sam there is nothing there, no wound, no blood. Sam is still on his back, and Sam’s huge hand is still clutching the back of his neck, but he’s okay. Sam is fucking okay.

Billie gets to her feet, she is staring at Sam with wide brown eyes, she’s not smirking anymore and her expression is something akin to fear. The taste of iron has gone from his mouth, and the pain ebbed away as if it has never been. Beside him Dean is weeping openly, crying in a way that Sam has never seen him cry. His shoulders shudder and dip but he’s smiling, smiling even as the tears pour down his cheeks.

“Dean?”

In the periphery he sees Chuck. He hardly recognizes the prophet, he looks smart and clean. There is something other worldly about him, the way he kind of glows.

“Dean?”

Sam scrambles to his feet and he looks better than he has in decades. It is as if the last few minutes – hours – never happened. 

Dean feels sick, head spinning. His brother is staring at him with speckled hazel eyes, the love in them almost unbearable. There are tears flowing freely down Sam’s face and he knows they match the ones pouring down his own.

“Sammy.”

Chuck is watching them closely; it is almost as if he expects them to do something unexpected. He smiles benignly at both of them.

“Sam and Dean, it’s good to see you. I missed you back in Michigan, but that musical; pretty close to the mark, wouldn’t you say?”

“You were there?” Dean has to lean against his brother to stop from falling and Sam clings to his arm, eyes on Chuck.

“Oh yes, I get around.”

“We thought you were dead.”

“That’s the general idea, if no one knows just where I am then no one can come after me for favors,” Chuck’s says and his statement makes little or no sense. “But you deserve more. Despite everything you’ve done, you have saved us all on countless occasions and now it’s time for me to step up to the mark and do my bit.”

“I don’t understand.” Dean can feel the warmth of Sam’s body against his own and it is all he can do not to turn and kiss him, hold him close and pray that he never dies again.

“Amara is gone and Lucifer is back in his cage.”

“What?” This time it’s Sam and the shock in his voice echoes the way Dean feels.

“Of course you never noticed that Castiel was harboring Satan,” Chuck said and laughed then sounding more like his old self. “Well he was, but he isn’t anymore. I have taken him up to heaven so that he and his vessel can have some peace.”

They exchange glances. Sam is shaking visibly and Dean can’t resist any longer, throwing his arms around his brother and holding him as close as he can. His mouth is on Sam’s hair and his hands skim along his back. Only moments ago Sam was close to death and now he is gloriously alive, and Dean doesn’t know who to thank for that but he figures it is probably – impossibly – Chuck. He doesn’t know what to do with the information about Amara or Castiel either. He’d noticed the angel had been acting strangely, but that wasn’t that unusual.

“You are free,” Chuck is still talking. “Free to go and live your life in whatever way you choose. I cannot condone your lifestyle choices, but I cannot condemn them either. You are unbound from any of your responsibilities; you no longer have to fight evil. Evil is banished and there is nothing more for you to do.”

And with that Chuck is gone, vanished as fast as he appeared. Nothing left behind him but an ever dimming glow. 

“Dean, do you think that Chuck was . . . ?” Sam’s voice is awed and he sounds like a little boy again.

“Don’t say it, Sammy.” Dean breathes again, chest loose, eyes still stinging. “Let’s just get the fuck out of here, and go home.”

****

**Now**

The bunker looks like it always did; a bit cold and a bit clinical. It’s never been home to Sam, not really, Dean knows that, he’s always known that and, even at their most domesticated, it could never really rival anything Sam had with Jess or Amelia.

He doesn’t even try to hide the laptop from Sam. His brother stands behind him looking over his shoulder at the array of places that Dean thinks they might be able to afford. Neither of them talk about what happened, about the blood, the pain, about Billie, or about Chuck. Castiel has gone, that much is for certain. Dean feels a pang of regret but he comforts himself by thinking that the angel is finally at peace. If anyone has earned that then it’s Cas.

They pack in silence, not much to show for their thirty plus years on this Earth. Sam has his memory box, and Dean has his vinyl. They don’t wear much other than denim and plaid, and their possessions fit easily into duffels. Sam is reluctant to leave his books but Dean promises him a small library. He’d promise his brother the world if he could, but a small apartment just outside of Kansas is a start and about all he can manage right now.

The Impala revs her engine, windows down to let in the warm breeze. Spring is approaching and everything seems to be blooming. The darkness is gone, swept from the earth as if she had never been. Dean feels nothing now, nothing but contentment. He can’t stop staring at Sam, at how healthy his brother looks, at his stupid hair blowing away from his high boned face, his flushed cheeks and those killer dimples.

He always wanted it to end like this; him and Sam in the Impala going out in a blaze of glory. They might not be doing a _Thelma & Louise_ but they’re leaving hunting behind them and he couldn’t be happier. The words, _‘I love you’_ stick in his throat and he can only hope that Sammy sees it in his eyes. _No chick flick moments_ but enough between them to make a go of a future together. He clicks on the tape and the sound of Bob Seager fills the car. Sam grins wryly, and they sail over the proverbial cliff to their happy ever after.

End


End file.
